


like two pieces of a puzzle (they don't quite fit)

by wickedlittleoz



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Character Turned Into Vampire, Drabble Collection, Fluff, Internalized Homophobia, Little NSFW action going on on chapter 7, M/M, Mechanic!Billy, Monsters, Post-Season/Series 02, Pre-Apocalypse, Wedding Fluff, Writer!Billy, coffee shop AU, experiment!billy, sick!Steve, waiter!steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2019-06-24 05:28:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15623586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedlittleoz/pseuds/wickedlittleoz
Summary: this is a compilation of drabbles i originally posted on tumblr





	1. 11. Oh god, you're bleeding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season 3. Steve finds a bloodied Billy at the parking lot behind the mall during his work break.  
> Requested from the hurt/comfort prompt list, find it [here](https://wickedlittleoz.tumblr.com/post/176649170089/oh-god-youre-bleeding-gimme-that-good-angst).

Steve doesn’t realize he’s not alone at first. It’s only 2pm and already he can’t wait for this day to be over. This side of the parking lot is far enough from the mall entrance that people rarely park here, so after a couple weeks of working at Ahoy he found this place and took to spending all his breaks here.

When his dad set him up with this summer job he thought he was doing Steve a favor, that it was going to help his boy learn responsibility. Steve wanted to laugh at the poor joke, but it wasn’t a joke.

He thinks he’s responsible alright, after everything that’s happened. He looks after the kids, chauffeurs them all around town, knows their moms trust him. He also helps Hopper check on the monsters every couple of weeks to make sure they’re not coming back.

But of course his father can’t know about any of this, so he still sees Steve like the spoiled brat from always.

He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, feels a migraine coming on and searches his pocket for his pack of smokes, and that’s when he sees.

Steve would recognize those curls from miles away. Most of what he remembers from the night at the Byers is the way they bounced with every punch Billy threw. He’s also had enough of Billy bumping into him at practice or in the halls to know what those curls  _smell_  like.

So even though Hargrove is sitting in the shade, Steve still recognizes him.

They haven’t really talked since the whole incident. In fact, Hargrove has done a very good job of ignoring Steve almost completely since that night. And he should be relieved to catch a break from Hargrove’s attitude. But he isn’t.

In fact, as the weeks went on he began to notice that Hargrove was becoming more and more… Quiet. Not just around him, but in general. He thought about asking if he was okay, but he didn’t want to rock a purple eye on the yearbook, so he didn’t.

Now, in this near-empty parking lot during his break, he thinks it’s safe to approach Hargrove. Even though he’s probably hiding. Even though he’s sitting alone.

“Am I dreaming or is that you, Hargrove?” He asks, mimicking that night.

Billy just laughs humorlessly, like he can’t even bring himself to be surprised. “Yeah, it’s me. Don’t cream your pants.”

Steve’s taken a little aback that he remembers his lines perfect. He hasn’t been able to land that on anyone else since then. It just feels wrong, like it belongs to another time, to another… Person.

The sun is very bright today, making shades so dark, but Steve thinks he sees something on his face.  _Maybe it’s nothing_ , he thinks.  _Maybe you just want an excuse to get closer to him._

“Those shorts are really something, King Steve,” Hargrove says then, voice flat. “Make your legs look fantastic.”

Steve blushes because he can’t help it, hates himself for the way his cheeks burn. “You been checking out my legs, Hargrove?”

“The whole town has,” he says and Steve sees as he sits up with a muffled groan. He fiddles around, brings a cigarette to his lips and curses when he can’t find his lighter. Steve stands, walks over to him, offers his own.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, unable to hold back the shock. “Oh my god, you’re bleeding.”

Hargrove snatches the lighter from Steve’s hands angrily. As his eyes adjust to the shade Steve realizes that he was right before, but it’s actually much worse than he thought. He’s got bruises all over his face, an ugly purple on his jaw and another on his left eye. Blood has dripped onto his shirt, probably from his nose, which is still running and as he watches, Billy wipes it with the back of his hand.

His knuckles are clean though, which Steve finds odd. Hargrove definitely isn’t one to back down from a fight. How did he get this bad without punching back once?

“Yeah, not shit, Sherlock,” he says grumpily through a cloud of smoke. “You done admiring the master piece?”

Steve’s heart is racing in his chest when he kneels next to him, instincts kicking in. Billy flinches at first and even though it hurts, Steve moves closer and softly presses that stupid handkerchief to Hargrove’s nose. He thinks that his boss is gonna be pissed when he finds out, but Steve can’t bring himself to care.

“Who did this?” He murmurs and Hargrove eyes him suspiciously, but doesn’t answer. Steve sighs. “You need ice.”

Hargrove rolls his eyes, attempts to push Steve away, “I know how to take care of myself, Harrington.”

“Clearly,” he retorts sarcastically, but steps back, lets Hargrove hold the cloth. “Where’s your car?”

Again, there’s no answer. Steve isn’t the smartest, but at this point his mind is starting to put two and two together, and as he realizes that whoever did this is someone close to Billy and also someone who can and will (and  _has_ ) take his stuff away, he suddenly feels a need to protect this mess of a boy.

And that’s when he knows he’s done for.

When he looks at Billy and his heart skips one, two beats, his stomach grows cold. Stuck between wanting to beat the shit out of whoever hurt him like this and hug him until his broken pieces glue back together.

Steve sighs and stands again, fishes his keys out of his pocket. “C’mon.”

“Where?” Hargrove asks before he so much as moves a finger.

“Does it matter?” He looks back at those blue eyes, so full of depth, so broken. He wants to drown in them, wonders if Billy would let him, knows the answer is no. “My place.”

Hargrove scrambles to his feet and follows Steve into the sun, across the parking lot, into his too warm BMW.

“Do I get the royal tour?” He teases once he’s settled into the passenger side.

“Just shut up, Hargrove,” Steve says curtly, avoiding his eyes, avoiding all of him, as much as he can.

“As you wish, your majesty.”


	2. 17. I don't know where I am. Help me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Season 1 AU. A strange boy with psychic abilities appears in Steve's backyard asking for help.  
> Requested from the hurt/comfort prompt list, find it [here](https://wickedlittleoz.tumblr.com/post/176681099174/can-you-also-do-17-for-hurtcomfort-prompt).

It was around 10am when the sun managed to find that tiny spot between the curtains to fall on Steve’s eyes. He tried going back to sleep, hiding his face with a pillow, but Melissa Sanders yawned and looked at him and laughed like he was a fool, and he suddenly felt stupid for letting her stay.

His head was pounding and his eyes were burning, but Steve showed Melissa his bathroom and went downstairs to the kitchen. Flashes from last night were coming back to him as he tried to make room on the counter to cook and despite the huge mess that extended from the front porch to the pool, probably, he had no regrets.

See, Steve wasn’t the best in math or geography, but he really knew how to throw a party.

He practically inhaled his pancakes as soon as Melissa showed up, smelling of his own shampoo and wearing one of his sweaters. Through breakfast she kept a hand on his knee like this was some scene from a sappy rom-com, and when he was about to start on the long task of collecting beer cans and solo cups and all sorts of literal trash from his kitchen and living room, she went, “could you maybe drive me to Tina’s place? I told my parents I was spending the night there.”

And the thing is, he sold this “I-don’t-care-about-anyone-other-than-myself” act, but deep down Steve was a softie who just craved attention and affection, and he would feel terrible if he let this girl  _walk_.

So he drove her to Tina’s.

She tried to kiss him as they parked outside, but he caught a glimpse of Tina watching them from her front window, and Steve wasn’t about to become Melissa’s boyfriend just because they fucked at a party, so he looked out his own window and pretended not to notice how disappointed she became.

On the way home, he bought burger and fries because he had a long afternoon ahead of him and deserved to treat himself. Period.

His parents had been on a trip for the past week and should be back for dinner. Throwing this party the night before was a dangerous idea, but he was a teenager and teenagers are known for being reckless and a little dumb. Or at least that’s what Tommy said when he convinced Steve to do it.

Halfway through cleaning up the kitchen, though, the phone rang and it was his mom saying something had come up and they wouldn’t be back until maybe Wednesday. It wasn’t the first time (or the second or the third) something like this happened, but he still felt his eyes sting with tears he didn’t allow himself to cry.

So he ordered pizza, grabbed the leftover beer from last night that he had hidden in his room and sat by the pool to avoid the emptiness of the house for a while.

It wasn’t until around 9:30pm that he decided to go inside and just sleep while he was still a little fuzzy from the alcohol. He turned off the radio, tossed the empty cans and the empty pizza box into the trash and took one last look around before turning off the patio lights.

That’s when he heard something. He quickly turned the lights back on and walked back outside. The sound seemed to come from the trees past the pool, but he couldn’t see anything. Maybe it was someone’s dog. He thought he heard the old lady from next door, Mrs. Healey, complain about her missing dog the other night.

When he heard it again, it was much closer than before and that—that was no dog. It was bigger than a dog, for sure.

He felt cold panic wash over him from his head to his toes. His voice was breaking when he croaked, “Hello?” at the darkness. The response he got was more steps and on instinct he grabbed the one thing he found closest, which was a barbecue skewer.

“Who’s there!?” He asked, this time training his voice to sound the most aggressive he could.

The sounds died and for a moment he felt proud for scaring whoever it was away. But seconds later he saw something moving in the dark towards his pool, and Steve held his skewer tighter.

Until one of his lights washed over the form of a teenage boy.

He couldn’t be older than Steve himself. Was just a couple of inches smaller than him and was wearing some sort of hospital gown. He seemed terrified, fear clouding his eyes, irises just as blue as the pool separating them. There were various cuts on his arms and face, and even on his gown, and he was dirty, like he’d been running in the woods for a while. His blond hair was frizzy and wild.

“Who are you?” Steve asked, putting the skewer down.

There was a pause during which the boy studied him, lips pressed into a thin line.

He didn’t answer, so Steve pressed a little. “My name’s Steve Harrington. This is my place. What’s your name?”

“I’m lost,” the boy said suddenly, and his voice sounded raspy, like he hadn’t used it in a while.

“I told you, this is my place. It’s, we’re the Harringtons.”  _Though I’m the only one ever here_ , he added in his mind.

“I don’t know—where I am,” the boy insisted and Steve started to wonder if there was a psych hospital around. “Help me. Please.”

He sounded small, defenseless. Afraid. Steve didn’t recall ever seeing this kid around, so maybe he really was lost, maybe he wasn’t even from Hawkins.

Steve thought about it for a moment. He didn’t care how the kid had gotten here, because he didn’t scare Steve at all, didn’t strike him as the kind of person that would kill him in the middle of the night. Actually, he somehow felt like he could trust those ridiculously blue eyes. And maybe tomorrow morning he could call the Sheriff and ask if he had any missing person reports.

“Okay,” he said finally as he slid the backdoor open. “I can help you.”

 

For the second time that day, he found himself cooking boxed pancakes for someone using his bathroom. The boy found his way down looking a lot more wary than Melissa had, though, and Steve’s clothes, while they were a little long on the limbs, fit tighter on his frame.

“Here,” he said softly as he set a plate down for him on the counter.

The boy looked suspiciously between Steve and the steaming pancakes for a minute before Steve urged him on, slathering syrup on top of them. He ate fast, like he hadn’t seen food in days, and Steve found himself serving him cereal once the pancakes were done.

He let him eat in peace, watching and only laughing softly whenever he would look at Steve with puppy eyes for a refill. Now clean and from up close, Steve could see his features properly. And that’s when he became certain that this kid couldn’t be from Hawkins. They didn’t make people that beautiful in Indiana.

When he finally seemed to be satiated, Steve guided him to the living room and sat him on the couch with the first-aid kit to check on those cuts. They weren’t too deep, but he didn’t want to risk getting them infected. The boy watched him silently, with wide curious eyes, only hissing every now and then.

He had a tattoo on his right wrist that said “006”. Steve thought it looked like branding, but the boy pulled his arm away as soon as he realized Steve was looking, so he didn’t ask.

The face was last because the ugliest of the cuts was right across his right cheekbone, and also because Steve felt downright  _giddy_  at the prospect of caring for that face.

He licked his lips, smiled reassuringly as best as he could (and his stomach was  _cold_  sitting so close to him), and set his left hand on the boy’s jaw before he started cleaning up on the other side. As soon as he started, he felt him lean on his hand.

“So, what is your name?” He asked softly to distract himself from how close they were, how he could feel the boy’s breath on his cheek.

“Six,” he answered for the first time.

Steve’s brow furrowed as he worked, “Same as that weird tattoo?”

“It’s not a tattoo,” he whispered.

Suddenly, his mind was taken by images, images that had nothing to do with his living room. They featured men in white lab coats, and they carried a small child by his arms. The kid must have been around 4 and he had the same blue eyes as the boy in front of him now, but the blond curls had been shaved off his head. The men restrained him as he cried and Steve felt a sting as the numbers were marked on his skin.

His vision cleared as he felt wetness on his hand. His eyes found the wet blues of Six and even though he now had many more questions than he did before, he knew this wasn’t the moment to voice them. Somehow, he also knew that Six had made sure he felt his pain so that Steve could understand him. And he did.

He wiped the tears with his thumb, too afraid of moving anything and ruining the moment. The feeling that flooded his chest was new, made his heart beat faster than it had ever, but Steve felt weirdly calm as he closed the small distance between their faces and pressed his lips to Six’s mouth.

Six jumped a little, startled and probably just as confused as Steve. But then he grabbed onto Steve’s shirt, tight, like his life depended on it, and chased Steve’s mouth when he tried to pull away.

“Take it easy,” he chuckled softly. Steve wasn’t new to this, he’d always liked boys, but this town and his reputation expected him to like girls, so most of the time he kept to himself. “There’ll be time. I think you need to rest now.”

Six looked at him from behind heavy lids of exhaustion. He nodded and followed it with a yawn that flooded Steve with a ridiculous wave of affection.

He helped Six upstairs and onto his bed, and by the time he was done throwing the covers over him, he seemed to be fast asleep. But when he stepped back to leave, he felt a soft hand close around his and looked back to the most peaceful he had seen Six’s face all night.

So he slid under the covers with him and Six cuddled against his chest, and Steve watched him sleep feeling weirdly thankful that his parents were delayed.


	3. 04. How long has it been since you've slept?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post season 2. Billy is trying to be a better man, but it's easier to hate than to love.  
> Requested from the hurt/comfort prompt list, find it [here](https://wickedlittleoz.tumblr.com/post/176756207149/hi-lovely-can-you-please-go-prompt-4-for).

Billy hated Hawkins. He did. Hated how quiet it was all the time and that he had nowhere to go but the woods or the quarry when he wanted to escape for a few hours. Hated that he had to count on a bunch of repressed teenagers to throw boring parties that ended too early. Hated that Max had adapted too quickly and actually made friends while he was stuck to idiots like Tommy and Carol.

Hated most of all how everyone seemed to compare him to Harrington (like he was anything like that rich, preppy, pretty boy) or at least expect him to fight Harrington at all times (which in turn he could do, because it kept him from thinking of just  _how pretty_  he was).

So he put on a show. Because Hawkins needed to be rocked, shaken, thawed. Because he quickly realized that once again, the responsibility of corrupting his fellow students had fallen to him. And, honestly, he was up for the task.

He hadn’t intended to make actual damage, though. What happened at the Byers’ was a situation gotten out of control. And for weeks Billy pretended to be proud of himself, pretended to think the purples and greens on Harrington’s face made him all the prettier.

Until he couldn’t anymore. Until Harrington healed and continued to ignore Billy’s existence, and buried whatever tiny hope Billy had that he was going to come for revenge. Until he moved on with his life and showed Billy just how big of a person he actually was. Until Billy could only wallow in his regrets from a distance, which Max made sure to remind him with that cold, resolved stare.

They ran into each other more often than Billy assumed Harrington would’ve liked – it was, after all, a  _very small town_. At school or outside the arcade as they waited on Max and her gang of losers. Steve would sit in his car, shades covering those ridiculously pretty eyes, and just. Sleep. Like he didn’t have something better to do with his time. Like in a car, in the middle of a parking lot outside of a place full of screaming children was the safest place to sleep.

And you see, Billy usually could read people very well. But he couldn’t read Harrington at all.

At first he thought it was all about Nancy Wheeler. He was always moping and it was frankly kind of depressing to watch.

But after that night Billy started to see things differently. Because sure, he made himself pass as a vain and a slacker, but behind all the hairspray, Billy was  _smart_. He knew something was up.

So, he finds Harrington holed up with a bunch of kids, Max drugs him and then steals his car, then none other than the chief of police wakes him and he’s in a house covered with weird drawings all over the walls. And  _no one_  tells him a  _thing_.

Of course Billy knew some weird shit was going down.

But the strangest part was watching Harrington get worse every day. His eyes became glassy and adorned with dark, heavy bags, like he was getting little to no sleep. He wouldn’t talk to anyone, not even look at anyone. Get in, get out like he was living life on autopilot or something. Like his body was empty of will.

Now, Billy didn’t  _care_  about Harrington, don’t get him wrong. He was just curious.

Because that wasn’t heartbreak anymore. So, what could make a rich boy like him lose himself so fast?

“What’s up with him?” He had asked Maxine one night as they drove back from the arcade.

She had looked at him long and hard before responding, “Who?”

“Harrington. Guy’s like a zombie these days.”

Max narrowed her icy eyes, like she could read him so well, like that wasn’t Billy’s specialty. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he shrugged, aiming for nonchalant, landing on  _trying too hard_. “Just asking.”

“Well, don’t,” she said, looking outside her window like the conversation was over. “He’s none of your business.”

And the conversation had in fact been finished.

What Max didn’t understand was that even if Billy didn’t care about Harrington (he didn’t, let’s be clear), he did mind that some of Harrington’s weird behavior could be his fault. Who knew, maybe the guy wasn’t used to getting a good slap or two – he  _was_  a bad fighter.

Sure, Billy was hot-headed, aggressive, full of rage boiling in his blood, but the big difference between him and his father was that he had a  _conscience_.

 

Harrington was already parked when Billy and Max arrived that Saturday afternoon. The curly-haired one ( _Dustin_ , Max had told him like five times by now) was sitting in his passenger seat, talking excitedly while Steve listened with the kind of glow in his eyes that he only got around those freaks.

When he saw Max,  _Dustin_  climbed off Harrington’s BMW to meet her. The two of them glared at Billy for a good ten seconds before turning their backs to the cars and heading inside.

Billy noticed, then, that Steve was staring at him as well. He was about to wave when Harrington looked back inside his car and started meddling with the radio.

 _Fine_ , Billy thought. No worries. No  _fucking_  worries.

He got off his own car and walked away from the parking lot.

At the diner across the street, the waitress was  _crazy_  about him, always gave him priority on the line and extra fries. She looked very disappointed when he took his order of two coffees to go. Billy winked at her and gave one of his Cheshire smiles before he left, because Max liked the fries and he liked getting his food fast.

Harrington had his Ray-Bans on and windows rolled up by the time he crossed back to the arcade. Billy walked up to his car, tapped the driver window gently, watched him jump awake and brows furrow when he realized who it was.

“Coffee?” Billy said, simply, like they weren’t basically arch-enemies in this town.

To his surprise, Harrington gave a smile that was on the verge of exhausted and breathed out, “Fuck, yeah” as he took the cup from Billy’s hand.

 

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

Steve looked up at him, brows furrowing. “What?”

Billy just shrugged, downed the rest of his coffee. “You look tired. And you’re always falling asleep in classes and in your car.”

There was a pause during which he thought Harrington was gonna roll his window back up, regret ever letting Billy approach him again and take off. But a minute passed and then two, and then Harrington was doing the opposite – opening his door and climbing out of his car to lean on it next to Billy, shoulders bumping before he took a step to the side.

“I don’t know, a few weeks?” He said and his face was open, honest, in a way that made Billy think he didn’t allow a lot of people to see, “I get nightmares, that’s all.”

 _That’s all_. Always the humble man.

Billy nodded quietly, because he didn’t want to say that he wished the thing keeping him afraid to sleep at night was made of dreams and not of his own blood.

“That sucks,” he said, glancing quickly in Steve’s direction and finding his eyes again.

Harrington laughed at the surprise in Billy’s face when he was caught looking, though Billy thought he was the one who should be ashamed because he was staring in the first place.

“Listen,” he cleared his throat, kicked the ground once, twice. “I’m sorry. You know, about—”

“Yeah,” Harrington cut him with a hand on his shoulder. Billy jumped and he chuckled again. “It’s fine, Hargrove. Water under the bridge.”

“Steve!”

It was Dustin again. Harrington spun around to the front of the building, where the kid was poking his head through the door, and Billy took the chance to quickly make his way to the Camaro.

He wanted to  _scream_. His heart was doing things that always put him in trouble and Billy didn’t want to admit that a stupid, rich, preppy…

…Pretty, kind, humble, charming…

…boy like Harrington could make him  _feel_.

The Camaro raised a cloud of dust as it sped out of the parking lot.

Billy hated Hawkins for a good number of reasons, but most of all he hated that it had brought Steve Harrington into his life.


	4. 13. Hey, just look at me. Breathe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post season 2. Billy tags along in monster hunting for the first time.  
> Requested from the hurt/comfort prompt list, find it [here](https://wickedlittleoz.tumblr.com/post/176831110139/hey-love-are-you-still-doing-the-comforthurt).

The ground shook beneath his feet. Steve had been running for what felt like forever, a hoard of the monsters following at his heels. They had set traps and the number had already fallen drastically, but there were still a lot of them and he needed to get rid of the creatures before meeting up with the kids.

They had come out of _nowhere_. Hopper had seen one of them while doing patrol and called Joyce as soon as he got back to the station, who then called Steve, who collected the kids, dropped them off with her (against a _number_ of complaints) and then met with Hopper.

Billy Hargrove had come along, too, because his father insisted that he had to be the one to drive Max around. And the last time they had found a cluster of Demogorgons, Hargrove had pretended to leave, but followed them into the woods and seen it all.

So after everything was over, Steve gave him a nailed bat of his own, mostly as a truce, but also because if his punches were anything to go by, he would make a great ally.

This time he had parked the Camaro right next to Steve’s car and come out, bat in hand, grinning like a maniac.

“How many are there?” Steve had asked as they set bear traps, hoping the things would be dumb enough to fall for it and the three of them, smart enough to recognize their own signs and avoid the places.

Hopper had thought long, hands working the metal with ease. “I’m not sure, kid.”

He didn’t comment any further, but judging by the amount of traps they set, Steve knew they were in for trouble.

It hadn’t prepared him for this.

In the beginning, they had gone around the creatures and Hopper had shot the smaller ones dead. But they eventually got too much attention and had to split. Most of them had gone after Steve and Billy, so even though they were armed, it was useless now.

So they had been running, avoiding their traps successfully, but they didn’t know just how long they had until the monsters caught up.

“Watch out!” Hargrove pointed and Steve jumped out of the way from a trap just in time. Seconds later, they heard the growl of a Demogorgon and the snap of the metal.

The trees were growing closer to each other now and Steve knew those woods well enough to run around them, Hargrove at his heels. They stopped when the sounds of the monsters became distant, their breathings loud at their ears.

Steve realized, then, how quiet it was. Like the other animals knew they had to hide. Like the monsters had stayed behind.

“I think we lost them,” Hargrove breathed in relief. So they walked, as slow and silent as they could, to a small clearing short ahead of them.

It just… Didn’t feel right. One minute there’s a dozen ‘Gorgons following them like moths to a lamp, then the next. Nothing. All gone.

No, Steve had had enough encounters with those things to know that they’re smarter than that. They moved like they knew those woods as well. Or if they didn’t, they could _smell_ them.

“You think we should—”

Hargrove’s question was interrupted by a shrilling growl, one that was too close, so close that Steve’s instinct had him frozen in fear and shock at first because he hadn’t heard the thing approaching. As he spun around, he heard Hargrove yell and watched the monster jump onto him, flower head opening to reveal countless rows of endless teeth.

He didn’t linger or think. Steve ran at it, swinging his bat as strong as he could, shoulder shaking as it made contact with the body. The Demogorgon toppled onto its side and Steve climbed on top, swung once, twice, enough times to make sure the thing was down for good. The nails made the most disgusting wet sound as they cut into the skin and goo and blood flew everywhere and all over Steve.

Adrenaline pumping in his veins, instincts acting before thoughts. Steve dropped his bat once he was sure the monster was dead and turned his attention entirely to Hargrove, who’d been breathing shakily the whole time.

There was a lot of blood on his right arm and his sleeve was ripped. His left hand was covering the wound and Steve had to pry it off, shrug off his own jacket and secure it around the wound. It was ugly. They were gonna have to come up with some bear attack story and take him to a hospital.

“Hey,” he called as he worked a knot out of his jacket sleeves. “You with me? You alright?”

Hargrove seemed to be in a trance, shaking, breathing through his mouth and eyes glassy. Steve understood – he was a guy who liked to be in full control and this thing had taken him by surprise when he let his guard down.

He helped him sit up, back against a tree trunk. Knelt over his thighs and his hands found the two sides of Hargrove’s face, and that’s when Steve realized he was crying.

Steve felt his heart clench into the size of a quarter. He smoothed the tears and the curls away from his face, held him a little tighter.

“Hargrove. Billy, hey, just look at me.” He tugged his face until their eyes met, “Breathe. I got you.”

In the dark of the woods, the blue of Hargrove’s eyes was almost all gone and Steve realized quickly that he missed the glow and the color. He seemed small in Steve’s arms, expression pained and terrified, but he nodded quietly and Steve caught himself wondering when was the last time Hargrove trusted someone like this, so openly.

The woods were quiet, dead as the monster at their feet. Somewhere to their south they heard a shot and what seemed to be the last of the monsters go down.

Steve looked over his shoulder when he heard Hopper’s voice. He let go of Billy and tried to get up, but a hand tugged at his sweat-covered t-shirt.

He looked back at Billy, dropped his hand to where his was still holding tight to the fabric of his shirt. Their gazes locked; Hargrove seemed warm and nothing like the kid that had once beat him to near death.

The hand beneath his slowly let go of his shirt and, instead, wrapped around his own.

Steve grinned quietly in the dark. “Right here, Hop.”


	5. love like the wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt of "Steve is seriously sick, Billy doesn't know, Steve needs to tell him before it's too late!".  
> Turned into a bit of A Walk to Remember AU, hence the title. Find it [here](https://wickedlittleoz.tumblr.com/post/170283444234/steve-is-seriously-sick-billy-doesnt-know-steve).

It was getting worse. Had been, for the last five years or so, but the meds had managed to hold it back for a while. Not anymore, though.

He had days. Some of them he was perfectly fine, all smiles and disposition, laughing and singing ( _terribly_  out of tune) with Dustin in the car, days in which you wouldn’t even know his body was self-destructing cell by cell, 24h a day.

But then came the days where he could barely get out of bed, the very rise-and-fall of his breathing made him sick, and he was so weak that his hand was shaking when he reached for the phone by the bed to call Nancy and tell her he couldn’t make it to school.

He couldn’t even blame his parents for not sticking around much. The treatments were expensive, the doctors were states away. They had to overwork themselves to keep up with the bills – and now as it appears it was worth shit. Steve was getting worse and the doctors were, all of them, hopeless.

At first he was told he wouldn’t make it to high school. Then he did. Freshman year they started a new treatment that worked wonders for a while. He made it into the basketball team, played better than anyone else on the team, scored the most points in the regionals and brought the cup home. He became King Steve, life of the parties, master of the basketball court, professional heartbreaker.

Then they told him he was already stretching too far. He wouldn’t live to see college days, and Steve actually overheard a doctor tell his parents not to worry about saving money.

But he didn’t care. He felt that he was making the best of his life. Going to parties, bossing the school, hooking up with whoever he wanted. He just wanted to be a  _normal teenager_ , doctor appointments and meds were a secret he didn’t mind struggling to keep.

When Nancy came along, though, that’s when it really hit him. Steve had never been in love before. She crawled into his heart and into his life, and sooner than later, she saw one of the  _bad days_. Steve had to tell her everything. He cried and she held him, and when he thought she was going to back away out of his life, she did the very opposite.

His entire body hurt that day, but his heart ached the worst, filled with so much love.

But he always knew she didn’t love him as much as he loved her. Sure, it hurt when they eventually broke up, but she was better off with Jonathan, who had a long, promising life ahead of him.

He thinks it was something to do with the Upside Down. Being down there must have messed with his body in a way – air pressure or some expensive scientific bullshit – that it simply stopped fighting. Bad days jumped from one every 15 days to once a week. Halfway through the day he would suddenly feel his chest tighten, his breathing become erratic, his head begin to spin.

He actually passed out on the court twice before Nancy talked him into signing out of the team, health first, she had insisted. Steve would rather leave than watch Hargrove win them the championship from the bench, anyway.

It was a bad enough day without said mullet-wearing asshole cornering him to ask what the fuck he thought he was doing, giving up the team. Steve gave him a generic excuse, he was sick and couldn’t play anymore. When Hargrove insisted, told him to just “take some cold pills and a bowl of soup”, he nearly broke down crying, because Steve  _wished_  it was that easy.

 

Here they were, though, with Billy lying on his chest as the morning sun filtered in through the curtains. It was a Bad Day, capital letters, because while Steve knew he had to get up and take his meds – and should get to it before Billy woke up –, he was dizzy just laying there and breathing.

He sighed, carding his fingers through the blond curls, and felt the tears wet his cheeks before even realizing he was sobbing.

Steve wanted to tell him. Had to, before he ended up in the hospital and someone in a white coat and zero intimacy to the boy on his chest told him Steve wasn’t coming back home. Billy  _deserved_  to know, because he didn’t have much longer. Steve  _felt_  it.

Ever since he and Billy had gotten past the fighting and teasing, they’d realized it was all something else. Electricity brewed and built around them for days following Steve resigning from the team, until one night the storm just… Broke. Steve was sitting in his BMW, waiting for Dustin, and when he first caught a glimpse of the curly-haired boy and the blast of fiery color that was Max, Billy was suddenly at his window.  _Meet me at the woods tonight. Seven. Don’t be late._

He was almost late, a coughing fit taking the best of his nerves. But Billy made up for it, made him feel good and wanted, and despite the physical exhaustion, Steve felt the  _healthier_  in days.

Their thing had grown quickly, at first just hot, needy fucks whenever Steve’s parents were away and he had the house. But at some point (most probably when Billy showed up with his face all fucked up and opened up about his dad) feelings got involved.

Now Steve realized that for the first time since this madness had started he actually  _wanted_  to live until graduation, and after. Wanted to run away to California straight out of prom in Billy’s Camaro, blasting rock songs all the way up to the coast, making love in shitty motel beds and just being young and reckless and  _in love_.

He feared, as he pinched his nose to stop the sobs, that Billy wished for that, too.

His finger came back red and gooey with blood. Steve sighed, suppressing a cough, and gently pushed Billy off his chest. Billy murmured something unintelligible, but continued to sleep, and Steve slowly teetered his way to the bathroom.

It took a while for the bleeding to stop, so long that when he finally emerged from the bathroom, Billy had made them breakfast. He smiled, bacon grease smeared over his lips, making them look even plumper, and Steve’s stomach churned. He spun on his heels immediately and braced the sink.

His body was shaking shallowly with the force of it. He’d had nothing to eat and it was just acid and blood.

Then Billy was there, a warm (clean) hand on his back, brows furrowed in worry. Steve couldn’t help the tears, but he washed his face before Billy could see them.

“You okay?” He asked, arm snaking around Steve’s waist when he pushed away from the sink.

“Yeah,” Steve responded –  _lied_  –, avoiding Billy’s eyes as he wiped cold sweat off his forehead.

“Sure you don’t wanna–”

“No,” he almost jumped and definitely spoke too soon, because Billy’s brows furrowed even further. So he gave his best attempt at a comforting smile and kissed Billy’s still naked shoulder.

He knew Billy didn’t believe him. But he just couldn’t face a hospital with Billy at his side, not yet.

So they spent the day inside, going from the couch to the bed, with eventual stops at the toilet. Steve fed off salt crackers, OJ, and milk whenever it seemed that Billy was going to comment on his lack of appetite. But mostly he just clung to Billy, as if trying to make the best out of their last moments.

It felt ominous. Imminent. As if he subconsciously already knew it was going to happen and when – _soon_.

Suddenly his chest filled with a sort of warmth as he looked up at Billy, blond curls splayed around his head like a heavenly halo. Steve felt happy, so happy, strangely happy that he’d had the chance to be loved.

 

“We need to talk,” he announced around eight, as they lay on the couch. Billy’s hand, where it rested on Steve’s stomach, grip loose around the remote, jerked into action, turning off the TV. He sat up, gently pushing Steve off his chest, and they were suddenly face-to-face.

“What’s wrong?” He was grinning, but Steve could see it in his eyes that Billy was worried.

He stopped. How did one approach the subject of death? To Billy, of all people, who had lost his mom and found home in Steve’s arms, and given Steve so much love and will to live. How could he have the courage to tell Billy that it was all going to end and there was nothing any of them could do?

He was sobbing, tears leaving dark stains on his sweatpants, even before he started to speak.

“I’m sick,” he managed between sobs, eyes lingering on his hands. He heard Billy chuckle unamused.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“No Billy, you don’t get it,” he sniffed, mustering the courage to look up. Billy’s face was a mask of confusion, that quickly became worry and he scooted closer to Steve when their eyes met. “I'm–I’m dying.”

Billy was silent for a heartbeat. Then two. He watched Steve’s face, his eyes, as if searching for something that pointed that this was nothing but a tasteless joke.

But Steve’s wide, wet, dark eyes were truthful.

“What do you mean, dying?” He asked hesitantly, voice but a soft murmur.

Steve felt his throat closing as he tried to speak. He choked, and coughed into his hand, and Billy didn’t miss the blood on his palm this time.

“I have leukemia,” he said, more to his hand than to Billy. They both watched the blood with a sort of awe for a moment.

“When?” Billy asked darkly, the way Steve knew he did when he was trying not to cry.

“I don’t know yet,” he said, wiping his hand on his pants, and Billy held it and laced their fingers. “I’m going to see the doctor next week, but my body’s just… Not fighting anymore.”

As if to prove a point, another coughing fit shook his body. He wasn’t sure if the tears in his eyes were his crying or coughing.

He felt Billy’s eyes scorching him. Steve remembered, then, a few nights ago, as they lay spent on Steve’s bed and Billy traced his ribs with the tips of his fingers, he had laughed and said he should probably feed Steve better because he was getting too thin.

Steve had dropped 10lbs since then, hipbones jutting out sharp enough to cut or break, most likely the latter. But Steve liked the idea of Billy cooking for him. Made him feel cared for.

“And where the fuck are your parents?” Billy spat angrily, and Steve saw in him his 14-year-old self, pissed at the world and whatever god there was that Steven Harrington from Nowhere, Indiana had been chosen as the self-destructive time bomb of the decade.

“These treatments are expensive, Billy,” Steve said tiredly, because his 17-year-old self was too far into acceptance to get heated. “Most of the doctors on my case aren’t even from Indiana. We can only afford these things  _because_  they’re always out working.”

“But–But this isn’t right, Steve!” He stood suddenly, started pacing up and down like a caged animal. Steve knew the feeling, knew what it was like to feel like you’re going to explode as you try to digest the information. “This isn’t right, it isn’t fair, you shouldn’t have to deal with all this… All this  _bullshit_  alone!”

“But I’m not alone. I have you and Nancy and the kids–”

“They all know?” He stopped and stared at Steve, and he saw quick glint of jealously –  _he was the last to know_.

“Just Nancy,” Steve hurried to respond. He hadn’t yet been able to figure out just how to tell Dustin. The boy had been through too much already for a kid his age.

Billy sagged by his side again, heaving a sigh. They were silent for a moment, the air heavy and tension nearly tangible, and the world around seemed to mimic them, suddenly too quiet that he could almost believe it was a dream that he was close to waking up from.

But Steve knew better than to cheat himself like that. It was no dream. It was very real, as real as the weight and warmth of Billy’s hands between his two, his thin, pale fingers feeling smaller than ever against Billy’s tanned skin. It was as real as the ever-growing love he felt for Billy, the love that made his heart seem too big for his chest sometimes, and that had been his cure.

It was only because he’d been loved so deeply and intensely and honestly that  _Steve was not afraid_.

 

They didn’t fuck that night, but neither of them slept, either. They lay curled into each other, as if trying to mark the scent forever. Steve felt the tears Billy had been holding back dampen his hair and pillow, and held him tighter.

Billy was right, it wasn’t fair. And as he gazed into those blue, blue eyes that had taken his breath away from day one, he wished someday Billy managed to get out of Hawkins. That he made it back to California, safe and sound, and started over. And that one day, when he sat on the sand to watch the warm and orange sun rise (nothing like the sad, cold and blue Hawkins sun), he felt the wind and heard it whisper in Steve’s voice,  _I love you, I love you, I love you_.


	6. black coffee + vanilla pancakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt I picked up randomly in my dash:  
> "Billy as a mechanic who is actually a really good writer and is trying to get published, who comes into a cafe every morning just for a chance to see Steve, a waiter who works there."  
> Find it [here](https://wickedlittleoz.tumblr.com/post/170669240769/hargroveandharrington-billy-as-a-mechanic-who-is).

They start out kind of unusual.

Steve had been waiting tables at that cafe for a few months, ever since he finally mustered the courage to stand up to his father and tell him he didn’t want to work for his company. That he wanted to go to arts school. His father had called him a pussy and kicked him out of home while his mom sipped on her mimosas by the pool and pretended she had nothing to do with it all.

Billy’s father had moved them to Chicago for no reason at all midway through his high school years. He’d remarried a couple years prior, and then one day Billy came home from school to find half the house packed and everyone ready to leave. He thinks to this day that if he’d come a little later they’d have left without him. Then, after he graduated, Neil told him it was time to fly the nest. End of story.

The two of them had to make do with what they could. Steve started waiting tables, which he found out he was actually good at, while trying to save money for school. And Billy had gotten a job as a mechanic with the only guy he used to trust his Camaro with.

Then one especially cold winter day, California boy Billy Hargrove stepped into the cafe, a little too early to work and too cold to be outside, and Steve’s life was instantly changed.

Blonde curls waved down to his shoulders and piercing blue eyes scanned the place, mostly empty given the early hour, before he settled in a booth. Steve, from where he stood behind the counter, watched him go in awe, mouth slowly slacking to an “O” shape until Tiffany laughed and elbowed him. He blushed furiously and only moved around the counter because she  _insisted_  that she was busy with the cashier.

The cheapest grin Steve had ever gotten in his life ordered large black and pancakes. He blushed harder around the words  _right away, sir_.

“Hot Blond”, as Tiff started calling him, stayed for about an hour and had two refills, all the while scribbling things on a worn-out leather journal. Steve had tried to see what he was doing, but the guy hunched protectively over the paper as he wrote.

After an hour, he was gone and Steve actually deflated as he watched his perky jean-clad ass walk out into the snow, sorrowfully thinking he was a loser for not getting his number or  _at least_  his name.

Then, to his surprise, when he came into work the next day, Hot Blond was already there, sitting in the same booth.

Steve was a little late and he scrambled in through the front door, shrugging snow of his shoulder and rambling in complaints to Tiffany about missing his alarm until she jerked her head somewhere behind him and Steve looked over his shoulder to see bright blue eyes and the cheapest grin in all Illinois. His face turned into a red bell pepper, probably, and he rushed inside to change into his apron.

So it became a thing. Hot Blond would come in almost every day right when they opened (sometimes he would be waiting outside, chain smoking to fight the cold, until Steve flipped the  _OPEN_  sign and let him in), sit for about an hour, have two or three cups of coffee and just… Write. He never seemed to finish whatever he was working on. And he worked intensely, brows furrowing and chewing on his pen, tapping his foot nervously, sometimes reading sentences out loud. He’d call Steve sometimes and ask  _pretty boy, what’s a good synonym fear? Terror just sounds too extreme_. Steve would blush at the pet name (which Billy secretly loved), but help him either way.

One day he just asked. There were only two other tables taken and Tiff had been serving them so that Steve could “focus” on Hot Blond. She’d been telling him to make a move for  _weeks_ , forget work ethics for just a minute and get his number, ask him out.

Steve was just a little too shy to be that forward, so that morning, because he wasn’t too busy and Hot Blond had already called him  _pretty boy_  twice, he craned his neck while refilling his cup and read  _Chapter Twelve_  at the top of the page, and then he whispered it. Hot Blond nearly jumped and hunched over the journal more while Steve chuckled softly.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.” He took a step back before adding: “ _Sir._ ”

Hot Blond breathed once, twice.

“No problem,” he grumbled and sipped his coffee.

“W-What’s that?” Steve insisted, hoping to God he wasn’t being invasive and ruining whatever chances he had.

“It’s nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me.” His hands were shaking and he feared he’d drop the pot of hot coffee all over himself, so Steve slid into the booth in front of Hot Blond, who eyed him suspiciously, flirtatious grin all gone and replaced by baby blues full of intense seriousness. “Twelve chapters is a lot.”

“It’s just…” He stopped and sighed. And blushed. He  _blushed_  and Steve almost reached out to touch his cheeks, find out if his skin was as warm as it seemed to be – the guy practically radiated heat. “A stupid… Novel.”

Steve let out an involuntary “oh” of surprise and confusion. Hot Blond had worn a coverall once, one morning when he came in a hurry and took his coffee to go, and Steve figured by the calluses on his hands that he worked in mechanics or some other sort of heavy-lifting job. Writing novels seemed a little too… Delicate for a guy that big and tanned and strong and  _breathtaking handsome_.

He noticed that Hot Blond was still blushing, but now looked a little angered, and realized his reaction had been  _awful_. He perked up, “Can I read it?”

Hot Blond looked up at once, blue eyes scanning Steve’s face for signs of mockery and finding nothing but actual interest. He softened a little, blushing light pink again and Steve took mental notes that he  _loved_  the color on him. “Name’s Steve, by the way.”

They stared for a minute, until Hot Blond laughed and looked away, scratching the back of his neck self-consciously. When his eyes found Steve’s again, they were full of confidence and Steve’s heart skipped maybe two beats. “I know. You wear a  _tag_ , pretty boy.”

Steve looked down at his chest to see the pin on his apron, his name staring back at him, only upside down. “Oh right,” he just said, feeling stupid.

Hot Blond stood and Steve looked up, breathlessly following after a second. He bit on his bottom lip as he took a step in Steve’s direction and slipped something into the pocket of his apron, “Here’s your tip, pretty boy.” He whispered at Steve’s ear, “See you tonight at the book club.”

Then he stepped around Steve and left, waving goodbye to Tiffany. When Steve regained his breath and the movement of his limbs, he fished in his pocket and found not only his (generous) tip, but a thin piece of paper with an address and a time.

He had the silliest smile on his face all day long.


	7. take my last breath with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW warning. Another prompt I picked up from my dash:  
> "I know we've talked about post-monster Harringrove sex before. But what about pre-monster fight sex? You know? Those moments before they walk, weapons at the ready and side-by-side, into the fight that could end their lives? They'd use their bodies to say I love you and goodbye in the same breaths."  
> Find it [here](https://wickedlittleoz.tumblr.com/post/171535700129/i-know-weve-talked-post-monster-harringrove-sex).

Goodbyes are never easy. They’d both said it too many ways, too many times.

The hometown. The people there. All the friends, the family, the lover. All of them disappearing into the rearview mirror.  _Goodbye_.

The mom. Expensive dress, Louboutins, sunglasses and red lips. Divorcing daddy to remarry some CEO they’d met through work somewhere in Italy.  _Goodbye_.

People and places, hopes and dreams.

 _Goodbyes_.

But nothing before felt like this. Nothing felt like knowing the world was about to end and this was the last moment they had to share. Nothing felt like the cold fear that crept up their bones as they looked into each other’s eyes and thought this might be the last time.

There had been so little times.

The Halloween party, eyes wild, glazed with alcohol, a challenge and a promise from alpha to alpha,  _there can only be one of us_. Then on the court a reminder,  _I’m going to take you down whatever it takes_.

In the showers, tension building, fighting off boners as naked bodies gleamed under the spray of water,  _I wanna go down on you_.

At the Byers, anger and hurt and  _I hate that I want you_.

Out at the quarry two weeks later, eyes vulnerable and open for the very first time,  _I can’t get you out of my head, please say you think of me, too_.

Steve had been awake for a few minutes now, but only when he felt Billy stir, he reached to wrap his fingers in his blond curls and pull him close. Billy purred, pressed his face into the curve of Steve’s neck. He breathed. The scent of him, the feel of his warm and surprisingly soft skin, the simple comfort of waking next to him. Steve wanted to commit all of it to memory.

The sun was starting to set outside his window. That meant they’d have to leave soon, sooner than he’d like. But he knew they were lucky to have had  _time_. To lay in his too big a bed all afternoon, kiss and touch and memorize every line and curve and dip of each other’s bodies.

Why did the goddamn Apocalypse had to start in Hawkins, anyway? And why couldn’t they just be like the rest of the town, blissfully unaware of its approach, of the fucking Demodogs and Shadow Monster and all this Upside Down bullshit.

Steve had thought about leaving. Taking Billy and just. Driving away. To California, fuck it, to New Mexico even. Anywhere but Hawkins.

But he just couldn’t leave the kids. Couldn’t just shield his eyes and pretend not to know. Couldn’t say goodbye. So they stayed.

“You’re thinking again,” Billy murmured into his ear, nuzzling his cheek.

“Sorry,” he sighed.

There was no response other than Billy shifting on top of him to press their mouths together. Languid and sensual, the slow drag of his tongue over Steve’s inebriating. He sighed into the kiss, which seemed to last for hours, hands sliding up Billy’s arms and shoulders to pull him closer, closer, until they merged into one. Until they never had to part to fight flower-headed monsters from another dimension.

He pushed himself up, flipping them over so he was straddling Billy’s thighs. Pulling away from his mouth, Steve slowly kissed his way down. The corner of his mouth, his chin and jawline. His neck, the hollow of his throat. Collarbones, which he had an unexplainable affection for. Pecs and abs. His navel, the V of his hips. Inner thighs.

Gosh, he loved everything about Billy’s body, could worship him like a god, liked to, in fact. His golden tan, the defined muscles and how soft they looked after Billy came or when he slept. He loved Billy – and he realized now maybe he hadn’t said it enough.

A whine and Steve looked up to see Billy’s stomach contracting, cock hardening again. He smiled, knowing Billy was just as touch-starved as he was, and leaned into him again, pressed his face into his thigh. A strong hand instantly shot down to grab his hair. He took him in his mouth.

Billy sighed audibly. Steve sucked on the head, hand wrapped around the base and jerking, and the hand pulled harder at his hair.

“You’ll wear me out,” Billy breathed. “It’s almost time.”

Steve pulled off of him. “Should I stop?”

He knew the image he made, pink swollen lips, spit dribbling down his chin, bashfully watching him from under his lashes. Billy’s cock twitched in his palm and his expression was comically conflicted. He smiled again, wider this time, kissed the head and moved up to kiss him on the lips.

Billy was never one for long, slow kisses. He was feral and urgent, biting hard enough to draw blood sometimes, and Steve admittedly liked the tang of copper as it mixed into the kiss.

But now he kissed slow, unhurried, like the ground wasn’t splitting in half under their feet, like they could stay right there forever. And Steve loved it. Loved when they kissed for so long that he could feel Billy like an extension of himself.

It would be a long while before it ended. The sky would be dark and he would be surprised that Dustin hadn’t called yet. But maybe they were all taking too long trying to prepare for something they’d never be ready to face, each in their own way.

So Billy and Steve, they kissed, hips grinding lazily into each other, the friction wild, but just enough to keep them grounded in the moment. Hands massaged and squeezed and traced features as if the pads of their fingers could remember everything like muscle memory.

And Steve might have cried when he came for the third time that afternoon, and Billy might have kissed the tears away and whispered sweet nothings into his temple. Love promises scorched into their skin like invisible tattoos.


	8. signed, sealed, delivered

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted to write the first time Steve calls Billy "Bill".  
> Also on tumblr [here](https://wickedlittleoz.tumblr.com/post/184886190874/gosh-i-miss-writing-harringrove-anyone-got-any).

They’d never been much for first names. Not when they met, not when they brawled, not even when summer rolled in with heat and trouble, and they wound up fighting side-by-side and realizing they  _liked_  each other’s company. They’d always been  _Harrington_  and  _Hargrove_ , plus the eventual taunting nickname.

The closer they ever got to first names were needy, broken, choked whispers of want in moments of secrecy.

So as he stood there next to Harrington, holding his hand in front of a dozen of their closest friends, in front of Hopper, who had insisted on conducting the ceremony, only then did it click that that would be the first time.

“I, Bill Hargrove,” he started and had to make a pause to wet his lips, because the way Harrington beamed like he was the very sun didn’t help his nerves, “take you, Steven Harrington, to be my  _unlawfully_  wedded husband…”

Laughed erupted in the small crowd. Billy himself let out a wet chuckle.

The whole thing had been something they’d joked about for years. Neither he nor Harrington had dreamed of getting married, not after the terrible example their parents set. But then Jim and Joyce had to have the sweetest ceremony Billy had ever attended, and then two years back, Nancy and Jonathan had their own.

They were happy together, the kind of couples that make you want to believe it’s possible. At Nancy and Jon’s, Harrington had cried silently from his position as Jonathan’s best man for at least a good 80% of the time. Later, he cuddled close and whispered  _they’re so lucky, aren’t they_ , and it got Billy thinking.

He proposed a month later. Harrington never hesitated. And for years they kept the secret. Better that than to have people look at them with pity and sympathy for the queers that couldn’t legally be wed.

Until one night Max found the rings, confronted Billy, turned it into a scandal, and suddenly there they were.

“I promised to be true to you,” he went on, feeling the honesty of those words heavy like lead on his tongue, “in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honour you all the days of my life.”

He slipped the silver ring onto Harrington’s finger as the first tears slipped from his eyes. Billy wanted to kiss them away, knew what they tasted like after so many years and so many nightmares and quite a few surprise visits from Mrs. Harrington.

He kissed Harrington’s knuckles instead, inhaled the scent of his skin mixed with lavender that he figured was hand lotion, which must have been Nancy.

With a sharp inhale, Harrington pulled Billy’s own ring from the pocket of his suit following Hopper’s instructions. He held Billy’s hand in his shaky ones and stared into his eyes.

The rest of the hall disappeared. In that very moment, in that very room it was just the two of them. As it would be for the rest of his life, he hoped.

Steve smiled and his heart skipped a beat. “I, Steven Harrington, take you, Bill Hargrove…”


	9. the angel of death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Monster!Billy + Steve finds out after their fight.  
> Obviously I went for vampires and for that title that I've used about 86986789 times for similar prompts/characters before. Sue me.  
> (jk please don't)  
> Also on Tumblr [here](https://wickedlittleoz.tumblr.com/post/184909715809/gosh-i-miss-writing-harringrove-anyone-got-any).

In a world where creatures from other dimensions existed, as well as kids with psychic abilities, it really shouldn’t be a surprise that things like  _him_  were real. Things that prowled in the night, hunting and feeding on the weak. Monsters, his father reminded him constantly. Inhuman. Hellspawn.

He had taken the bite on the eve of his fifteenth birthday. Max was the one who was attacked first and he rushed to protect her. In the midst of yelling for her to run away and back home, he felt the cold fangs on his neck. His life was never the same.

 _Fiction lies_ , the creature had told him,  _it’s in its nature. We have evolved as a species. You won’t have to hide from the sun. You will be yourself. But you will serve the night and obey the thirst. For all of eternity._

The one who turned him was Billy’s first kill. Payback for that curse of a lifetime.

Max knew something had changed in Billy after the attack, but she hadn’t known just how much. She figured it was the trauma that made him sullen all the time, that caused him to shut her off. She had no idea that it was his struggle to resist the call of her virgin blood. Because Billy had sworn to himself that he would keep her  _safe_.

Which explains why she thought whatever was in that syringe would stop him. As the kids rushed out of the house, he was already coming back to his senses. When his eyes snapped open, irises glowing red, she stared back at him and the fear that crossed her features was something he wished he never had to see again.

“Run,” he told her, mimicking that night, and she let go of Harrington’s shoulders without question.

*  *  *

It took him a minute to come fully to his senses. To remember where he was and what had happened. Why his head was pounding and his whole body ached, like he’d been run over by a truck.

A blond, tanned truck with fists of steel.

Through the ringing in his ears he could hear something dripping. Steve forced his eyes open, just to have them be covered as a wet cloth fell on his face. It was cold, but soft. Helped subdue the burning on his swelling skin.

“Clean yourself,” he was told and his brain immediately registered the icy timbre of that voice as belonging to Billy Hargrove.

Steve took his time letting the cool cloth rest on his face. He figured if Hargrove wanted to kill him, he would have done it already instead of waiting for him to wake up and actually  _help_  with his injuries.

So when it warmed up and he finally took it off his eyes, he thought the beating must have knocked something loose in his head. He knew he hadn’t caused so much harm to Hargrove, wished he had, but knew better than to believe the couple of punches he managed to land could have done so much damage.

The front of his shirt was drenched in blood, just a little darker than the actual color of the fabric. If it weren’t for the blood also staining his still visible pectorals, one could have thought he’d had an accident in the bathroom and gotten himself wet.

Hargrove chuckled at him and Steve thought he saw something sharp and Demodog-like in his smile.

“Scared of a little blood?” He taunted and when he looked up, Steve saw his eyes. Once blue like summer skies, now red and glinting dangerously, and as he stared at Steve’s face, a shiver ran across his body. “You should see yourself.”

“Hargrove,” he whispered. His voice was gone; Steve usually wasn’t one to freeze with fear, but there was something supernatural about the way Hargrove wasn’t  _moving_.

“I see you’ve found out about the monsters.” He grinned, cold and devious, the tip of his tongue running across his bottom lip. “How do you like them?”

Steve shook his head. He wasn’t listening to whatever Hargrove was teasing him about, still stuck on trying to figure out why his defense system kept telling him to  _get away_  from the boy.

“What happened to you?” Steve sputtered. “Am I—Am I dreaming?”

“Nah,” he laughed again and Steve blinked. When he opened his eyes, Hargrove was crouching less than a foot from him. “You’re not dreaming, Harrington. It really is me. Now, how would you like to meet another type of monster? One from your own reality…”

If Steve wasn’t yet convinced that the world was fucked up, the sudden sharpness of Hargrove’s canines as he licked over them with his sinful tongue was enough to change his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> honestly considering writing a full vampire!au now. damn.


End file.
